


down side of me

by meowcosm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Recovery, Trauma, Tribadism, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23194090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowcosm/pseuds/meowcosm
Summary: I believe, I believeAnd tell myself to think forwardI will show I believeAnd hold you up and know that you're all I see in the light--Even when they're together, some things come harder for Bernadetta than others.
Relationships: Petra Macneary/Bernadetta von Varley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	down side of me

In Brigid, at the heart of the archipelago, the queen and the court artist lie together. Not to sleep, for there are specifications on who is permitted within the crown bedroom at night, specifications from which those without decreed permission to engage in intimacy there are excluded. But for as long as they can keep their eyes open, Petra and Bernadetta lie together, and they touch. 

It makes Bernadetta’s body quiver, the way Petra runs her hands over the soft sensitivities of her breasts. Torturous when slow, and overwhelming when fast, it’s always something her body can’t contain; that slips out of any and all unguarded corners of her body. Even now, when they’re only shirtless together in the silken folds of Petra’s bedsheets, it’s always so much. And then, when it’s over, it’s never enough. 

Some part of her is ashamed. Ashamed about a lot of things, all the time. How she eagerly partakes in these activities, finds them almost irresistible. And at the same time, how she holds out on Petra, the fact that her lover- a word which fits as strange and tense in her mouth as string- has never been able to touch her sex. Petra, Bernadetta is sure, could find a much more refined partner for these activities. One who doesn’t shut, vicelike, when touched; one who opens so delicately, as if she were the petals on a blooming flower. 

Her snow has not thawed yet. Bernadetta has long resigned herself to an eternal cold. But to foist such a cruel and unyielding winter on someone else feels so deeply cruel, so close to a punishment. Enough that watching Petra try to build a fire inside of her makes her want to push away, even when the lick of the heat is pleasant, or when the light carves a path through the winding, frozen trees. 

But still, she stays in the bed, long after Petra has grown weary of Bernadetta’s insistence on touching her exclusively. Of pleasing Petra alone, moving her fingers against her wet arousal- the same technique as smudging charcoal, but producing the tender motion of a plucked harpstring. Doing so until Petra cries out, until her mind becomes fire-hot and bleeding with the need to just be touched, to buck into the decisive motion of Bernadetta’s hand until the tension releases. A gratifying, beautiful thing. 

This, Petra had assured her, had not been unenjoyable. She loved Bernadetta, and how she touched her with the diligence and patience that made her so valued, so treasured for her gifts. And yet- there was something lost in the way Bernadetta perched on the bed, clothed in her entirety, doing nothing but observing. For, Petra assured her, she was beautiful. And though there was no rush, only an impetus, it would please her to have her bare, open to be handled. 

So Bernadetta tries. Tries to take the bruised little parts of herself apart, to treat them with tenderness, to fold them open in some fashion which avoids destruction. She knows why it hurts to do so, even when she’s gentle. In the wet corners of her eyes as Petra dips too low, too sudden, she has the lurching suspicion that Petra has managed to intuit the reason herself. Particularly the way she comforts her- by withdrawing her touch at first, bringing it back only when Bernadetta deems it acceptable, solely to run her fingers through the purple tresses of her hair. It reminds her of how people calm frightened animals- creatures whose fear is instinctual, relying almost entirely on what the body has learned. She is a rabbit, then. One with fragrant hair oils that leave Petra’s caressing, seeking fingers smelling of hyacinth and lime leaves. A rabbit wearing human clothes- or who once wore human clothes, before they were gently doffed by a lover (and once more, Bernadetta turns the word around in her mind, feels it roll around like a single bright stone in a tide pool washed by the ocean).

Bernadetta promises herself silently that she’ll say it, out loud, one day. 

_ I’m sorry this is so hard. I know it’s only you, Petra. But my body can’t tell the difference. _

Still, it gets better. Sometimes, Bernadetta doesn’t even notice when it does. One night, in the midnight ambiance of her trek back to her quarters, nestled next to her office, it strikes her that Petra’s hand was around her waist that night as they kissed. Not solely ghosting, but grasping, holding her in place. And her body hadn’t been screaming. Somehow, it had passed over it, as if it were the rightful consequence of the passage of time. Another night, she presses her sex down onto the mattress as she has her own fingers poised between Petra’s labia. Grinds down on it, follows the rhythm she’s learned to maintain with her fingers, feels the pressure rub against her through her smallclothes until she’s nearly released. Somehow, despite how raw and overwhelming it feels, she doesn’t notice until Petra comes, her voice a radiant call to attention. Another time in a dream, rather than hesitating by her side, Bernadetta comes to rest on top of Petra. In her out-of-body, dreamlike perspective, she’s clothed solely by the swaddling of the bedsheets and the red flush of blood reaching her skin. They move together, pressed together, and Bernadetta does not think to turn it down. 

  
Her mouth tastes strange when she wakes, and the thoughts dizzy her throughout the day. But they are not unpleasant, and so Bernadetta puts them in the place inside her where everything she’ll tell someone one day is stored, to become part of the towering pile reserved for Petra. One which contains enough stuttering instances of “ _ I love you _ ” and “ _ please, touch me there _ ” to crowd out every venomous utterance she’s ever thought of. And though they’ve never spoken about marriage, what with all the complications such a union could be bound up in, the same quivering part of Bernadetta wants to give herself to Petra for long enough that she’ll be able to say what needs to be said, or at least for as long as it takes for her to thaw the winter, should she desire to stay. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> you can find me on twitter at @meowcosm, feel free to talk to me abt petradetta!
> 
> as always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated :-)


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